Dear World,
You say everyone's beautiful.
Everyone, meaning
The authentic photoshopped models on TV.
-Unsigned

Depression, regression my true feelings I must not show, for if I do what will they all do? What will they say? Will they all turn just turn their heads and run away?
These feeling I hate yet they keep returning into my life like the seasons but unpredictable as to when like a raging tornado. The doctors, the meds all in my head supposed to help and it seems at times they do.
Friends and family try to be there they try to understand but so many times they get frustrated, as if I"m not? Do they really think I enjoy feeling like this? Then having to put on a facade just so people know when I'm working or interacting with new people. All the meds they help then they don't Aaahhh!!!
I"m so afraid, so ashamed, I should be able to control this right? I don't want to lose my friends and family but it seems like this may become the inevitable. When I'm depressed all I want to do is lay in bed do nothing, there in lies the problem. I have to work, I love my job. I have to take care of my family and the house, I LOVE my family more than words can ever say. WHY? Why must I feel like this??
Depression, regression will it ever stop? I'm afraid in my world the world that is bipolar.... no.

How long has it been?
Did I sleep the storm away?
What time is it?*

A disorienting headache alarms me awake,
The wind at my back nudges me to life.
Hungover,
Culturally removed and it's all over again.

The past can't exist here,
Childhood memories are a fiction.
Friends are forgotten stories scattered,
About my brain like the workspace of a maniac.

Am I that far removed?
Have I grown enough that I don't fill the old space?
Such elation and sorrow combine in misery,
And it's hard to believe that home disappears.

I wish no one missed me like I don't.
The man you see standing in the same door frame,
He passed through at all ages,
He has new eyes that you won't recognize.
For they don't see the world like you do.

One last country,
One last break through the clouds,
One last chance to make myself right?

Does my stack of thoughts grow taller yet,
Through dreams of experiences I never regret?
And did home stand still while I was gone?
Life, I suppose, has to keep moving on.

Dust is so evasive;
Clingy like an adverse abrasive
Who's dullness never fails to catch an eye..
Or a cough or to cover any canvas of life...

The depth of the dirt is profound,
ashes collect below your ebbing eyes,
You drown at midday, in quilted air,
Kept in the death mask of dust.
in the muted morning, sun sweeps through the curtains,
a bright blotter of those particles that paste your hair.